Elemental
by Rayn12
Summary: John and Sherlock in the aftermath of their confrontation with Moriarty.  My take on the resolution of The Great Game.
1. Fire

_Lord, please let us live. And if we can't, please let us take this insane bastard with us._

He's moving before the gun fires, adrenaline transforming his watery human muscles into coils of unadulterated power. He's too busy using them to notice. In less than a heartbeat he has Sherlock by the jacket, his grip shackling the pair of them together for whatever comes next. Sherlock can calculate like a super computer, throw a punch like an MMA star, but John is the one who knows war, and what they do now will be his call.

His body has already made that call, skipping his brain entirely in favor of instinct and training so hard won that it belongs to him on a cellular level now. They are moving away from the explosion, away from the pool, towards the shelter of the corridor and its promise of escape, before John's conscious mind has registered that the explosion is not where he expected it to be.

Sherlock hadn't shot the vest yet.

John knows that in reality you can't outrun an explosion, not the way the people do on telly. The heat, the sound, the shock wave are governed by the immutable laws of physics, and they will have their way. For just this second, though, the laws of physics are on their side; partially because walls are thicker than air, partially because there is a large body of water near to hand, but mostly because it wasn't the vest that went up. It was a smaller, more controlled charge, originating a floor higher and on the opposite side of the pool, distracting Moriarty and temporarily occupying the bevy of snipers that had so complicated their situation. It was quite possibly the only thing that could let them escape with their lives.

Moriarty has stationed a pair of guards in the corridor, men well-trained enough to hold their position with the sound of the explosion snarling through the building. They aren't actually expecting anyone to escape, though, and John and Sherlock make short work of them, a single hit apiece, barely slowing their mad dash as a second small explosion rocks the walls. In a distant, detached corner of his mind John is intensely grateful that his flat mate is not an Ivory Tower sort of genius. Scattered gunshots are discernible amid the echoes from the pool, and any second now the inevitable will happen and they _must _be out before the Semtex goes...

The doors are open, cool night air that he never again expected to taste sliding into his lungs, when the world explodes. Even at this distance the force is enough to send him sprawling, stunned and deafened, a barrage of flaming stones pelting him and the air ripped from his lungs. His vision goes black and for a long, long moment it is all he can do to hold his mind and his body together. Breathing is too much to ask. Eventually an urgent message works its way back to his medulla; the reply is a muscle spasm in his chest that wrenches his lungs to unwilling function. He coughs and gasps and coughs again, searing pain blooming between his ribs and stabbing across his skull. Something broken in there. Multiple things, perhaps. But if the pieces are a little cracked, they are at least still attached to one another, and none of them seem to be on fire. Not literally, anyway. Overall, that's rather better than he had any right to expect.

He still can't hear anything, but after a few blinks his dry and aching eyes confirm the presence of a sprawled body on the pavement beside him. The light from the inferno that was once a pool, while bright, is too irregular for him to tell if that body is breathing or not, so John negotiates with his arm until it moves, stretching out to brush awkwardly against Sherlock's face. His fingers trail down, pressing firmly as they round his friend's jaw and seek out the carotid pulse. It's there, and John's arm goes slack for a while in celebration.

The next thing to register is a bank of flashing lights- police cars and fire trucks. Rather a lot of them to appear out of thin air, so he must have blacked out for a bit after all. Someone is touching him, running hands along his limbs and torso, checking for breaks. He's just coherent enough to expect it when he's rolled and strapped onto a gurney. The swift, efficient motion is dizzying; they're almost to their destination before the world stops spinning enough for John to once again process what he sees. He's being bustled into an ambulance; Sherlock is meeting a similar fate a few meters away. Everything is blurry and surreal - the paramedics with their silent, moving mouths, the shimmering jets of the fire hoses, the fluid mosaic of police in bright vests spreading out to encompass the flames. His last glimpse, however, as the oxygen mask descends and the doors close, is startlingly clear: two men standing together, one with salt and pepper hair and a hovering cloud of waiting attendants, the other tall and imposing, with only a single assistant and an umbrella still furled despite the damp. Their identical expressions are bathed half in red and blue flashes, half in firelight. They watch anxiously as he and Sherlock are whisked away from the rush and the panic, hopefully to somewhere sedate, with a security staff and morphine. There's already a line in John's arm, which might explain the sudden heaviness in his eyelids. He wonders, briefly, if there isn't something else he has to do before the darkness reclaims him; a momentary panic speeds his heart. Then he remembers the two men watching, and he calms again. He and Sherlock are both alive. His turn is over with. They can take it from here.


	2. Darkness

Lestrade looks like hell. His eyes are sunken and dark, his silvered hair disheveled, his clothing filthy and rumpled. John has been awake for four seconds and he can already tell that the poor man hasn't slept in a day or two. He can also tell that they are in a hospital, and that Sherlock is tucked into the other bed. What he can't tell right away is why any of them are there.

And then he moves, and every muscle in his body screams. The burning pain kindles memory. _Fire, and before that running, and Moriarty…_

He must make some noise, because Lestrade quits pacing. "John?" he asks. "Are you with us?"

"Mmm," John croaks. "What happened?"

"I was going to ask you just that. We pulled the pair of you from the doorstep of the latest bombing. Do you remember anything?"

Bombing. That brings something back right away. The sensation of being strapped into enough Semtex to take out a full hospital wing or several floors of a residential building is not one that easily fades. "I was on my way-" talking is already irritating his lungs; his throat closes and he starts to cough. Lestrade proffers water, steadies it and him as he sips, hovers noticeably nearer as John lays back and tries to drift above the pain and catch his breath. Lestrade's patience worries John, although he can't say why.

"On my way to visit Sarah," he says when he can speak again. "Moriarty pulled me off the street."

He doesn't have to say more than that. Lestrade swears, quietly, almost reverently, and John knows the implications are not lost on him. Lestrade may not be a Holmes, but neither is he a fool.

Memories of his captivity are clamoring at him; he pushes through them without examination, abandoning them to the morphine fog. There will be time later to process them and deal with the aftermath.

"We found out about the pool from Sherlock's website," Lestrade says. "Didn't know which pool he meant, though. We arrived just in time to see the fireball. We'd have been there earlier-"

It wouldn't have helped. Might have made things worse, in fact; so many extra bodies around to worry about, so many reactions to account for. John shakes his head, denying the need for the guilt in Lestrade's voice. He planned on saying something to that effect as well, but the shaking triggers shooting pain and leaves him woozy. He pants for a little while before he realizes that Lestrade is saying his name.

"He warned us off, left." It's getting harder to focus, harder to breathe, and John knows his window of lucidity is closing. Every word has to count now. "Came back. We ran. Gunfight. Semtex." It's not eloquent, but it's enough for Lestrade to follow, and if he has to leave out his aborted self-sacrifice, Sherlock's giddy relief _(must live long enough to lecture that utter idiot for his stunt with the gun_), the stand-off and the mysterious grenades, well, it won't hurt him to have a bit of extra time to figure out what the hell happened. Must have been Mycroft…

Worry about that later.

"Is it over?" Lestrade wants to know. "Or will there be more?"

"Don't know." John shrugs, discovering too late that the movement is excruciating. He's exhausted, and his thoughts are turning to syrup. The edges of his vision are dimming. Two more things to get out before the darkness reclaims him. His lungs are burning, but he speaks quickly.

"Moriarty - Bart's, IT. Jim. Jim Moriarty. Molly Hooper." He won't be there anymore, of course, and most of what he's left will be lies, but even lies can be telling, and someone should be looking after Molly. Lestrade jumps and snatches his mobile from his pocket, delighted at this unexpected windfall of information, but John interrupts him.

"Sherlock?" he asks, all the intensity he can summon concentrated in the word.

Lestrade's manner doesn't change, which is as reassuring as anything he could say. None of the gentleness owed to the friends and family of the victim dilutes his evident annoyance. "Bastard was awake before you. Made a bloody nuisance of himself and had to be sedated. Bloody useless, you told us more in five words, but he'll be fine."

That's everything, and John relaxes. He is aware for the first time of the IV in his arm, the nasal cannula, the bandages everywhere. That makes sense, as he hurts everywhere, but he does wonder idly what, specifically, his injuries are. At least his hearing is back. He rolls slightly, trying to ease the mounting pressure in his ribs, and the motion starts him coughing again. Lestrade is on the phone already, but he drops it and yells for the nurse instead. He's swearing again, and not quietly. John doesn't have time to wonder what's scared him before the darkness sucks him back down.


	3. Water

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><p>There are impressions that float through John's mind- Sherlock's unmistakable voice, agitated and near; the crisp scent of Sarah's perfume; bright lights and unfamiliar people; pain, lots of pain. He's at Harry's flat, watching a film with her, when he notices an IV in his arm. He frowns and goes to pull it out, but something invisible restrains him. He realizes after a moment that he can't see whatever it is because his eyes are closed. When he finally remembers how to open them the dream of Harry's flat is gone, although surprisingly Harry herself is still present, slumped over and snoring in a chair in the corner. Sarah, her head tipped back and her mouth open, is sleeping in the chair beside Harry's. Sherlock sits beside the bed, and he is awake.<p>

"Do you remember your name?" he asks, with the air of a man asking a stranger the time, and John wonders if he is really awake yet.

"I do," he replies, and finds that his voice is hoarse but speaking is easier this time around. "And yours, and both of theirs." He stares at his sister and his girlfriend, knowing that they've been talking. And not just casual chatting, either, but the open, emotional conversations that happen in hospitals and mortuaries. He hopes to God Harry was sober. "That's going to be trouble," he notes.

Sherlock's lips hint at a smile. "I ought to call the nurse, but I'd like to speak to you first. How do you feel?"

The tone is still that of mundane conversation, but there is a tension around Sherlock's eyes, a rigidity in the long, slender hands folded together, that makes John weigh his answer. "Bit early to say, yet. You?"

Sherlock's answer is quite as oblique. "You had to have surgery, to repair a bronchial rupture. You've woken a couple of times since, but I believe this is the first time you've been really present."

"Um, yeah, don't remember that. Probably for the best." He prefers vague memories of pain to clear ones. The sensations reaching him right now are certainly pain, but they have the distanced, deadened quality associated with hospital grade meds. John is suitably grateful.

"They found five bodies in the rubble at the pool. Lestrade thinks Moriarty is dead."

"But you… don't." Fair enough. If he and Sherlock had had time to escape the building, Moriarty had, too. So there will be more on that front. It doesn't concern him unduly. John has plenty of emotions associated with Moriarty, but despite the bomb vest, fear isn't particularly high on the list. "Alright. Good to know."

He'll have to break things off with Sarah. He toys with the idea of sending Harry abroad. A rehab clinic in Australia? Perhaps a monastery in Nepal. Either would do her good. He'll have to drug her, though, to get her to go...

"John-" Sherlock says, and stops.

John looks at his flatmate and sees the confrontation at the pool playing out behind Sherlock's eyes.

"So was it Mycroft, then? The grenades?"

"Yes," Sherlock growls, throwing himself into a slouch. "One of his agents. And he's been insufferable about it ever since. This will only encourage him."

It's John's turn to almost smile, but his face turns sober again quickly. "You realize you nearly killed yourself. With my gun. Do you have any idea the trouble that would have caused me? You can gesture with a fork, or a water pistol even, but if I ever see you treat a gun like that again-"

The threat is preempted by a cough, and immediately Sherlock is standing, adjusting the angle of the bed, offering water, contemplating the call button for the nurse. John waves him off, but accepts the water. He feels like he hasn't had anything to drink in weeks. When he tries to get the little paper cup to his lips, however, the contents slosh and wobble as though they're trying to flee. Sherlock's hand steadies the flimsy vessel, guides it up so that John can drink.

In the corner, Sarah stirs but doesn't wake. Harry, who could sleep through an earthquake or a brass band, doesn't so much as twitch.

"You have three broken ribs," Sherlock informs him as he sips the lukewarm, vaguely cardboard-flavored contents of the cup in delight. Sitting up even a little hurts like the devil, and both his hands are shaking, but slaking his thirst is worth the effort. "Numerous abrasions, of course, minor burns from superheated air and debris, a concussion, although that's past the dangerous phase. Dislocated shoulder- repaired, hairline fracture of the right patella, contusions. Nothing permanent. The rupture was the worst of it."

"That's a good job, then. I was almost dead."

The cup jerks, its contents slopping threateningly towards the blanket. "John-" Sherlock says, and stops again.

John takes in the hospital gown Sherlock is still wearing, the splint on the ring finger of his right hand, the stitches beside his right temple, just at the hairline, and in his eyebrow, and on his left arm. Three or four days' worth of stubble doesn't quite cover the bruised scrape across his cheek. He knows there are more injuries, ones he can't discern laying in a bed, but they must be minor. All in all, it's satisfactory: Sherlock was almost dead, too.

"So what's the plan?" he asks, and Sherlock replaces the cup on the nightstand and sinks back into his chair. He stares at John while rain pounds on the room's window.

"This is good, right?" John prompts. "You and me, solving murders, catching criminals. You need a colleague. An assistant."

"A friend," Sherlock corrects, his voice hoarse and his eyes glistening. John pretends not to notice, which is surprisingly difficult. He nods and leans back against the pillows, takes a deep breath to get his throat clear.

"Alright. You come up with the plan, I'll get the shopping and make our tea. And pull you out of the way of snipers and grenades and such."

Sherlock laughs, and a drop of water slides down each of his cheeks.

"The next time I tell you to run, you still won't move, will you?" John asks contemplatively, and Sherlock shakes his head. John rolls his eyes. "You're a bloody idiot, you know. Bodyguard's not much use if you ignore him."

"Friend," Sherlock corrects again, his voice steadier this time. He sounds like he's warming up to the word. "And you seem to be the one in need of protection. I didn't get myself kidnapped off the street."

"No, you delivered yourself, didn't you? Walked right in to the circle of gunmen. Thoughtful." He giggles, and Sherlock laughs, and the crisis is suddenly behind them. There will still be repercussions, and the war is a long way from over, but they have come through this battle intact.

"Good?" Sherlock asks.

"Good," John confirms.

Their laughter wakes Sarah, who stretches grumpily but then lights up as she sees John is awake. "John!" she cries, and rushes over to hug him. John accepts the affection happily, returning the embrace and the kiss that comes along with it. Now is not the time to push her away, even for her own good. And besides, he's been a doctor long enough to know that a person is not supposed to make major decisions while on morphine. That can be his excuse for a while.

Sherlock, with unexpected consideration, retreats to his own bed on the other side of the nightstand, giving them the illusion of privacy for their whispered reunion.

"Do you want me to wake your sister?" Sarah asks eventually, and John shakes his head.

"Let her sleep, she'll be pleasanter that way."

"She was really worried about you," Sarah confides, as though she knows John won't hear as much from Harry when she wakes; Harry's concern is often the barking kind. "A lot of people were. Mrs. Hudson's been here, and Sherlock's brother, didn't know he had a brother, and I think the entire force of Scotland yard…" She draws a tremulous breath and squeezes his hand. "Right. Now that you're awake I should go tell Dr. Graham, your surgeon. I'll let the nurse know to pop in and check on you on the way. Back in a flash." She waves to him from the door.

John looks over at Sherlock, who appears to be studying the ceiling. "I'm inviting your brother for Christmas dinner this year," he announces, and savors the view as Sherlock's face freezes in shock. "I owe him a favor, and I think providing you for one family holiday and keeping you in line for it ought to about repay two diversionary grenades. Besides, it's what friends do, celebrate together, share each other's lives. We can go to your family," he adds quietly, "if that's better, but in that case we'll have to have Harry over Christmas eve. I expect you to behave to her. Do she and Mycroft seem to get on?"

That last draws a choking splutter from Sherlock, the result of which is that John is laughing- weakly, painfully, but laughing- when the nurse comes in to check on him. To his surprise, Sally Donovan is on the nurse's heels, and they both look pleased to see him awake and happy. Harry slumbers on in the corner, even as Sarah returns with the surgeon. Sherlock props himself up on one elbow, texting away without bothering to look at the phone, watching as the medical staff poke and prod his flatmate. The storm still pounds against the window, but no one can hear it anymore.


End file.
